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Jonathan Humphrey

White Light White Light

The moon’s half-brother is wanted in three states for robbing flour mills. Out of vanity, he keeps himself powdery white, when in fact his true color is more of a dull gray. Comparable in size to a large boulder, on Friday evenings he rolls down rows of corn at clustered deer, never once striking the target. I suppose that’s where he gets his nickname: “The Grain Valley Gutter Ball.” Farmers shoot at him, adding to his collection of craters. These he wears with pride, as all cosmic bodies do. Soon enough he will graduate to larger crimes, and he will need a disguise. Perhaps painting himself with fresh asphalt on a country highway, only to have the rain give him away. Surely the authorities will chase him through the woods and into a cave that’s too small, where he’ll get stuck. And there, amateur geologists will pick him to dust. For now, he’s content with the orbit of fields and mills. A small-time circuit allowing him to work out his angst, to feel the calming light of his sister, and see his round shadow cast on the makings of this world. 

old barn
another board gives
way to moonlight  

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About the Author

Jonathan Humphrey’s work has recently appeared in Acorn, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, and The Heron’s Nest. With a fondness for whiskey and whippoorwills, he divides his time between the lights of Nashville and the woods of his native Kentucky.